A hollow body, emerging from the neck a soul of light, the one that replaces what was once the man inside the suit and tie: and it hasn't. Nothing can replace it, yet the corporate logos, the Pepsi, the Coke, the Nintendos and so on speak through its neck and somewhere in the static, like an enigmatic face pressed against a saran wrap wall, it screams. And you see it there, late at night in the mirror: he is alive in there in the screaming thing that wakes into television and presses into its pillow like death like death like all that has wept and long gone down into the grave of night, the one that never sleeps now, and besides, the light stays on in the daytime too